Contamination
by Laburnum Steelfang
Summary: De-anon from the kinkmeme, request was for a realistic portrayal of OCD. Arthur would never harm Alfred, or any child, but nothing will let him convince himself of that. USUK, human names. Discussions of child abuse and self-harm.
1. Chapter 1

**De-anon from the kinkmeme at hetalia-kink; requester wanted a realistic portrayal of obsessive-compulsive disorder, in a manner different from the usual portrayal of arranging things alphabetically etc. I decided to take it in the direction of the unfortunate phenomenon of obsessive/intrusive thought patterns. While this is often the basic problem behind the pattern obsession in commonly-recognised OCD forms, it may also take the form of an uncontrollable terror that one is going to do something one finds disgusting, such as committing blasphemous or taboo sexual acts - in this case, child molestation. ****It's a very unpleasant thing to suffer from, because actually telling someone that you think you're a paedophile is so taboo that it's near-impossible to bring oneself to ask for help, and unless you ask for help nobody will be able to reassure you that you're not one. Arthur is quite definitely _not_ one in this fic, for the record.**

**Fic contains discussion of child molestation but no actual occurrences of same, and portrayal of deeply distressing mental disorders. Pairing involves rather warped implications of USUK, may become a healthier version in later chapters.**

* * *

Much as he tried to forget it in the months to come, he could pinpoint the exact moment it started. Alfred had just looked up in exactly the wrong - or right - way, and the sun from Arthur's living room window gleamed off his hair and the rims of his glasses and he gave Arthur that stupid little smile, and Arthur felt his heart flutter even as his stomach tightened.

"Something wrong?"

"N-no, I don't think so ... just a stomach cramp," Arthur excused himself, looking away and flushing slightly pink. He looked back at Alfred, whose brow had creased slightly in bewilderment, and found himself missing the smile. _A face that lovely should never be sad,_ he found himself thinking.

He'd thought the same thing before, centuries ago, but with a decidedly different tone. Last time, he'd been patching up the infant Alfred's scraped knee and comforting the little boy with a hug. Now, he was blinking like a lovestruck teenager at Alfred - at his _baby brother,_ his own little boy ...

"Well, it's been lovely seeing you, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Arthur said faux-brightly, standing up. "Shall I get your coat?"

"Wait, what? Geez, this is sudden - did I do something wrong?" Alfred objected.

"No, no! It's just ... you were right, I am feeling a bit off-colour."

Alfred peered at Arthur through his glasses. "Well, you do look a bit pale and sweaty - are you feverish?" He extended a hand to feel Arthur's forehead, and Arthur swatted it away.

"Careful there, it might be catching! I don't want you coming down with something. The world economy's in an unstable enough state without you getting sick."

"Hey! ... Well, good point. I should be going, in that case. Hope you feel better soon - if you're not okay by tomorrow I'll bring you some fruit or something," said Alfred, shrugging into his leather jacket. Arthur tried to keep his eyes off the way Alfred's muscles moved under his T-shirt, guiltily remembering the days when Alfred was a tiny pudgy little thing who could fit easily in Arthur's arms. "I guess you won't want me to hug you goodbye."

Arthur wanted nothing more, but restrained himself, showing Alfred out with a stiff wave from the front doorstep. Once Alfred was in his car and driving away, Arthur ran up the stairs and just made it to the bathroom in time to drop to his knees in front of the toilet and vomit up the cream tea he'd eaten.

He climbed unsteadily to his feet, stared into the mirror, wild-eyed and pale, and said dully "What the hell is wrong with me?"

He couldn't believe himself. He'd raised Alfred from a tiny child, he fondly remembered the days of Alfred's infancy. And now he was leering at the poor boy like some dirty old man? Poor naive Alfred, who'd lived several human lifetimes but never seemed to truly grow up? He was barely more than a child! Arthur felt sick again. How could this have come on so suddenly? ... Oh God, _had _it come on suddenly? This could have started at any time. He found himself thinking over every time he'd touched or held Alfred, even back in the earliest days of the colony, raking over every detail for anything untoward. He couldn't remember having thought anything inappropriate about the child, but surely his feelings couldn't have changed this quickly. His poor little boy, what might he have _done?_

No, he couldn't think like that. It was okay. It was all going to be okay. Sure, it wasn't something he'd expected and it was hardly going to be fun, and he wasn't entirely sure how he'd cope. But he could control it. Stiff upper lip and all that. A gentleman could control himself. If he'd lasted this long without doing anything, he could last forever. Now the problem would simply be ensuring nobody ever found out.

He stripped off and turned on the shower, setting it to cold. _No, wait, not cold,_ he thought to himself, turning the dial. _Hot. As hot as I can stand. I need to scrub this away._

He tried to put it out of his mind for the rest of the afternoon, distracting himself with a copy of _The Hobbit_, but found himself taking another hot shower before bed, and it took him a very long time to get to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn came, and Arthur struggled out of bed, yawning. He'd held off on falling asleep as long as he could, for fear of his dreams, and eventually had slept soundly out of sheer exhaustion. In the warmth of a new day, it was easier to dismiss his panic last night. It was stupid, now he thought about it. He'd never felt this way about Alfred before, especially not when he was a colony, nor about any of his other charges. It was nothing. Just a fleeting moment of weakness. Everyone had silly thoughts like that, it meant nothing at all.

Feeling much better, he washed up his teacup and stepped out into the sunshine. A brisk walk was exactly what he needed. He stopped to smell the roses in his garden, and waved politely to the lady with the small boy approaching down the road.

"Good morning, Mrs Smith!"

"Good morning, Mr Kirkland!" Mrs Smith stopped and leaned over the fence to look at Arthur's carefully-cultivated front garden. "My goodness, what lovely roses!"

"Why, thank you. And this must be little William - he's shot up like a weed since I last saw him! How old are you now, lad? Six?"

"Seven," mumbled the curly-haired boy, looking bashfully at his shoes.

"Seven already? Time does fly! Now you be good for your mother, you hear?" said Arthur, reaching over the fence and ruffling the boy's hair.

Time stopped as his hand made contact with the child's head.

_What the hell are you DOING? _his mind screamed at him.

_All I'm doing is patting his head! We're in public! His mother's right there! How can that be dangerous?_

_Slippery slope, Arthur. You can't let up on yourself. What if you were right? You can't wait until it's too late to start watching yourself, you know._

Arthur pulled away quickly, tensing up, as if the child had offered him a rattlesnake.

"Mr Kirkland! Are you quite well?"

"Ah, er, yes, dear lady - just thought I saw a wasp. Nothing to worry about, it's just a hoverfly," he babbled. "And now if you'll excuse me, I think I left the stove on." Arthur did a rapid about-face and walked as quickly as propriety allowed back into the house. He slammed the door behind him and immediately looked down at his crotch. Nothing untoward, but how much comfort was that, really?

_I was lucky this time,_ he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked out of the window, to see Mrs Smith and her son disappearing around the corner, much to his relief. No more awkwardness. No more potential temptation. Good. That wonderful little boy deserved his safety, he shouldn't be around someone like Arthur ...

He decided to take another shower.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a knock at the door. Arthur nearly jumped out of his well-scrubbed skin, before remembering Alfred had offered to drop in. He groaned. This was exactly what he did not need right now.

"Coming!" he yelled, yanking his clothes on as quickly as he could and running to the door. He dropped his dressing gown in a heap on the hallway floor, too distressed to bother hanging it up, and opened the door, face flushed and hair still damp. He took a deep breath, pulled the door open, and said "Yes?"

"Um, did I interrupt something?" said Alfred, struggling to balance a grocery bag full of fruit in his arms. "Can I at least come in and put this down? The handle broke, stupid cheap plastic bags ..."

Arthur, little as he wanted to see Alfred at this time, couldn't bear to refuse him. "Fine, come on in. Good grief, did you buy out the entire greengrocer's?"

"I didn't know what kinds you liked. I don't eat much fruit myself, so I can't judge." Alfred deposited the fruit on the coffee table and sorted out the bag; five apples of different kinds, a bunch of bananas, green and red grapes, an orange. "Should be something you like here, right?" he asked, blinking worriedly behind his glasses. "I can get something else if you want."

"Oh, thank you, this is perfect! You're too good to me, lad," said Arthur with a weak smile. He reached for a banana, but decided it was a bad idea in the circumstances and went for grapes; less disturbingly phallic. The grapes were sweet and popped satisfyingly between his teeth, and he smiled. Alfred beamed at him, and Arthur shifted uncomfortably.

"So are you feeling better?"

"Um, a little. Thanks for asking."

"Well, I've gotta be going, I have an appointment, but call me if you need anything, okay?" Alfred headed for the door.

"Oh, wait!" Arthur darted to the bookshelf and came back with a well-thumbed but well-cared-for book. "Would you like to borrow this? As a thanks."

"Your autographed copy of _Peter Pan_? You're trusting me with this? Thanks so much, I love this book!" Alfred held the book as if it was made of glass, and chuckled. "Guess I really am just a big kid at heart, eh?"

"Aha. Yes." Arthur forced a laugh. Really, he just wanted the book out of the house. The story's focus on children wasn't something he needed at the moment. And if it made Alfred happy into the bargain, why not? Alfred deserved to be happy.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur spent the rest of the day going through his library and all the other bookshelves scattered around the house. Just to make sure, he removed any book with child protagonists, of which he had an embarrassing number (English childrens' literature was the best in the world, of course, so he wasn't that ashamed). The _Chronicles of Narnia_ boxset, _Treasure Island_, the _Alice_ books, Enid Blyton's works, _Swallows and Amazons_, a few of the Dickens, most of the Roald Dahls, Pratchett's young-adult novels (at least he could keep the Discworlds), oh God, _Harry Potter_ as well, he'd miss those ... He looked guiltily at his Brian Jacques collection as he boxed it up; the poor man had only died earlier that year, and Arthur felt slightly treacherous getting rid of his books so soon, but needs must.

The books were a wrench to take off the shelves, but it wasn't like he was going to burn them; that idea revolted him nearly as much as his current worry did. He planned to take them all up to the attic, then rethought the idea; he'd still know the books were in the house, silently judging him. He'd lend some to Matthew, he could be trusted with books, and it was time Peter started reading more often.

Thinking of Peter made him check himself again. Nothing. Good. Maybe it was just Alfred who set him off like that. Well, better not take any chances, he'd get the books out of the house just in case. No sense in keeping something which might encourage this behaviour.

After going through all his shelves, his clothes and hair were dusty. Now he had to shower again. Good.

After that, he settled down to dinner. Cooking took his mind off the problem, but he found himself picking half-heartedly at the stew he'd made, thinking over it again and again ...

He leapt up from the table, spilling stew on the tablecloth. How selfish he'd been! As a mere human he could have simply suppressed it, but he had his people to worry about! He picked up the bundle of Sunday newspapers and started to comb through them, looking for any cases of children abused or killed or missing. Not much, but he couldn't bring himself to be relieved.

Rationally, of course, he knew it didn't work that way. Even if he had these unfortunate proclivities, it didn't follow that they'd increase in the general population. After all, most Russians weren't pipe-wielding lunatics, and not every American was an annoying loudmouth (though it seemed that way sometimes). Still.

The remaining stew was cold by the time he finished, but he ate it anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

He'd been doing okay so far - not great, but okay - but when he struggled out of an uneasy sleep the next morning, he realised it was Monday, and he was due back at work. That meant going out in public. In public with people who might notice him. Well, on the other hand, people seeing him meant he couldn't actually do anything dangerous. Yeah, he'd better go into work. Distract himself.

He picked at his breakfast, too distracted by the newspaper to care. No more new cases of child abuse. Good, he could control himself but he'd never forgive himself if he caused his citizens to start ... Then a hot shower, to clear his head. He was rapidly starting to run out of soap, and when the flush of the hot water died down he noticed he'd left deep red scratches all over himself with the brush. He hadn't realised he'd been scrubbing quite so hard. Still, his clothes would hide them until they faded. He dressed and packed his briefcase, and was ready to go. He looked out of the window before stepping out into the street; Mrs Smith was taking little William to school, so Arthur hid until they turned the corner, wanting to avoid an embarrassing confrontation. Once they were gone, he took a deep breath and stepped out into the sun, plastering a smile onto his face despite feeling like something that had crawled out from under a rock.

A normal human could not have walked from the little country village of Lower Tadfield to Central London in fifteen minutes, but Arthur was of course not a normal human. He'd actually been quite astonished in his youth when he found out humans couldn't do that. It wasn't exactly teleportation, or excessive speed; he just walked in the direction he wanted to go, and got there. He was England, and any part of his land was within his easy reach. He could have done it even faster, but he usually enjoyed the walk each morning. This time, though, he had to cut it down to ten minutes; he'd spent more time than usual combing the news, and it wouldn't do for the very representation of the nation to arrive late for work.

Work these days was rather dull; now he wielded a pen more often than a sword. Still, one had to move with the times, and it was necessary work. Gone were the days when the nation personifications could freeload off their people. Most of what he did involved polite discussions in meeting rooms or over the phone with other nations, or human ambassadors who may or may not know exactly who he was, and filling out reams of paperwork about the aforementioned discussions. He really did enjoy the work, deep down; he was doing his people good, and he got to make good use of his sharp wit. He hoped very much he'd be able to keep up that wit in his current state.

"Good morning, Mr Cameron!" he said to his boss when he arrived, the cheer in his voice a little forced.

"Arthur! Good morning," the Prime Minister said, looking at him oddly. "Are you feeling well? You sound a little odd."

"Um, a bit of a summer cold, sir, nothing important," Arthur blustered. _Oh God, he's going to find out ... no, I'm being ridiculous now, he might be my boss but he can't read my mind._

"Are you sure? If you're not well, say so." Mr Cameron asked, concerned. "It's no good to us if you're ill."

Arthur flinched. With all the powers of a nation come restrictions; specifically, they cannot answer a direct question or order from their mortal "bosses" with a direct lie.

"I didn't sleep well last night," he said truthfully, managing to evade the question. "But I think I'm well enough to work."

He was right; the day went as well as any other as he happily lost himself in his work, though he did make his excuses and hide in the bathroom when a secretary started passing around pictures of her grandchildren. He didn't need to involve his co-workers' children in this, it was bad enough with his own.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning this time for semi-graphic masturbation. In case you don't know, suffering intrusive thoughts during masturbation is pretty common with this type of OCD and does not mean he's actually a paedophile - it's just that trying not to think of something guarantees that you won't be able to think of anything else. If you don't believe me, try not thinking about pink elephants ;)**

* * *

The next couple of weeks went perfectly well, Arthur almost forgetting about his fears except for a tense half-hour of newspaper-reading each morning, but everything went to Hell one Saturday. A man who has had a twenty-three-year-old body for centuries is still technically a young man, and as such certain biological functions cannot be put off indefinitely. Arthur woke up from another restless night to a very obvious reminder of that fact distorting the blankets. He sighed. Oh well, waste not. He reached under the blankets and took himself in hand, then stopped, heart racing. What the heck had he been dreaming about to cause this? He couldn't remember dreaming anything, but ... No, he couldn't fret about that. He needed to clear his head, and this could help.

He stopped, seconds into it, and cursed. All he could think about was Alfred, his mind flickering back and forth between the adult Alfred and the child. Both had the same smile. _Oh God, I really am far gone if I'm thinking about my little boy_ now _... I'm disgusting. What would Alfred think of me?_ He felt tears rise in his eyes, and rolled over and punched the mattress.

He'd lost his erection by now. Probably for the best; no sense encouraging himself. He fell out of bed, wobbled to the bathroom, and vomited again. In the shower he scrubbed his hands and arms up to the elbows with his nailbrush, leaving deep red marks on his pale skin.

As he stepped awkwardly out of the shower, he decided that also applying the nailbrush to more sensitive areas might not have been the best idea. Then again, it wasn't like he didn't deserve some pain, he'd have happily inflicted far worse on any other person who even contemplated hurting his colonies ... Well, maybe eventually he'd be able to keep his mind on more acceptable topics, but he'd better abandon his attempts for a while. At least the sting of hot water and scrubbing brush had cleared his head.

The phone rang, distracting him.

"England, hi!" said the boy on the other end of the line, addressing Arthur by his title, as nations usually did in non-intimate conversations.

"Hello, who is this?"

"It's Canada!"

"... Oh! That Canada!" Arthur slapped his forehead. He did keep forgetting poor Matthew. "Sorry, line interference," he lied blatantly. "How are you?"

"Great! I just wanted to thank you for the books you sent me. But aren't I a little old for most of these?"

"Oh, there's no age limit on enjoying good literature!" Arthur laughed faux-heartily. He wasn't keen to talk to Matthew at the moment; he'd raised him along with Alfred. If Alfred had been in danger, so had Matthew. "Considering how old we all are, we'd be in rather a bind if there was, yes?"

Matthew giggled. "I guess. Oh, hey, _The Phoenix and the Carpet_! I remember this one! Thank you!"

Arthur tried not to concentrate on his groin. Was he reacting? Oh no, he could definitely sense _something_ ... maybe that was just because he was paying attention to it now. Or maybe not.

"Well, I'm afraid I'm a bit busy at the moment, so I'll have to cut you off. Shall I call you back later?" he said cheerily, with no intention of doing so. This time it would be for Matthew's own good if Arthur forgot him.

"Ah, sorry for interrupting. Well, thanks again, see you at the next meeting!" Matthew hung up, and Arthur sighed with relief and dropped the phone, still examining himself. He was pretty sure he was making a fuss over nothing this time - simply hearing his boys' voices shouldn't cause a noticeable reaction - but he still couldn't help but check. _Just one more time to make sure._


	7. Chapter 7

Peter, as usual, chose the worst possible time to come over to visit. This time it was exponentially worse. Arthur actually yelped when he opened the door to find the grinning child on the doorstep. Peter, in turn, jumped, nearly falling over backwards.

"Whoa! What did I do?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Arthur clutched his chest. "Just ... wasn't expecting you."

"Who the heck _were_ you expecting?" Peter asked, still stunned. "You looked like you'd seen a ghost!"

"No, my ghosts tend to walk through walls. Might have been a goblin, though. Well, come on in."

Peter's overgrown eyebrows knitted together in concern. "You mentioned goblins and didn't tell me I look like one. Are you okay?"

_No._ "Yes. Do you want to come in?" _Please don't._ Peter did, skipping merrily over to the sofa and slamming himself down on it in a way that made Arthur cringe. "Stop breaking my furniture, you little savage!"

Peter shrugged and kicked his legs back and forth. "Well, Dad said I should come over and thank you for the books and stuff you sent me." Peter's tone implied heavily that he did not appreciate them as much as Matthew had. He'd never been much for books or even TV, preferring to spend his time working with his hands; constant repairs to the Sealand fort had instilled that habit in him. Arthur was far less contemptuous of this than he pretended - learning useful skills never hurt anyone.

Arthur kept his eyes fixed on Peter's hat, not feeling up to looking him in the eye. "You're welcome. Well, you came all this way, would you like a drink?" He didn't want the child in the house any longer than necessary, but politeness was so heavily ingrained in him he couldn't not offer.

Peter did want a drink, and so Arthur ended up sitting in the armchair furthest from the sofa, making awkward conversation as Peter slurped his lemonade and scattered biscuit crumbs everywhere. Arthur was too nervous to even feel annoyed at the mess. He caught a glimpse of chocolate smeared on Peter's lip, and instead of lecturing the boy about eating tidily, mentally berated himself for looking at the boy's mouth as if he'd been intentionally leering at him. Peter noticed nothing odd about Arthur, but glanced curiously at the bookshelf, which was still full of accusing gaps where the books had been.

"Um, England, you said you were getting rid of those books because you had no room. There's plenty of room there."

"Er, well, I was going to rearrange the library, get some new books. I wanted to make sure there'd be room in advance."

Peter looked at him. "You're weird."

Mercifully, Peter got up to leave soon afterward. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief, before realising Peter was reaching his arms out. He almost never hugged Arthur, but of course he chose today of all days to do so, and Arthur couldn't refuse without making him suspicious. Bracing himself, he wrapped his arms as loosely around Peter as he could, making sure their lower bodies did not come into contact. His body did not react, but he still couldn't relax. As soon as he waved Peter off, Arthur ran for the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge. He didn't drink that often, he knew what it did to him, but now he needed it ...

_NO! You can't get drunk, you idiot! You're barely in control of yourself as it is! If you're drunk, God knows what you'll end up doing!_

Arthur thought it over, staring at the bottle. Before he could change his mind, he opened the fridge, took out the remaining bottles, poured all their contents down the sink, and threw them into the bin hard enough that he could hear them smash.

He slumped on the sofa, pressing his forehead into the armrest, and sobbed, feeling both filthy and pathetic. "I'm turning into a monster and I can't even bloody _drink_ anymore ..."

Desperate for something to distract himself, he picked up a half-finished piece of embroidery and started jabbing the needle at it much too fast, making uncharacteristically clumsy stitches. The needle pierced his finger, and he looked curiously at the blood. The puncture closed instantly, but the sting remained a little longer. Oddly, he felt a little better. _Hmm._

Carefully, he pushed the needle into his finger again.


	8. Chapter 8

"_Angleterre_, if I may ask – what's wrong with your hands?"

Arthur, leaning against the corridor wall, nearly dropped his papers. "What d'you mean?"

Francis pointed and wrinkled his nose. "Well, look. Your skin's so dry it's peeling off! They look disgusting."

Arthur looked. _I know they're disgusting, they're attached to me. They nearly hurt my boys._ Now he thought about it, though, they did look rather red and chapped. Maybe he'd been washing them too much. They'd been itching, but he'd dismissed that as part of the urge to wash them again.

Francis tutted and produced a tube of something floral-smelling from his briefcase. "And it's not even winter yet! Do you want to use my hand cream? It's not done to go into a world conference in such poor condition, you know!"

"Rose-scented? What are you, a fourteen-year-old girl?" Arthur snapped half-heartedly, not even bothering to protest as Francis took his hand and started smearing lotion on it. Suddenly, Francis' finger met the scratch between his fingers, and he winced in pain. He'd taken to carrying a needle around in his pocket and digging it into his hand every time he thought of harming any of his children. As a nation, such minor injuries should have healed within minutes (after all, he'd suffered nothing worse than severe headaches when a small meteor had landed on him during the war), but he'd been opening the wounds over and over during the past three weeks, and apparently this caused the healing process to slow. Francis stopped and frowned.

"How did you manage to scratch yourself that badly?" he asked. Arthur's mind raced, trying to come up with an explanation, until Francis suddenly laughed and said "I didn't realise you were that clumsy."

"Clumsy nothing, you gutless frog! I've out-fought you plenty of times and I can do it again!"

"Well, someone's grumpier than usual! When did you last get laid?"

Arthur flinched visibly, pulling his hand away, and weakly muttered "You better not be offering." Francis may have had a point; he still hadn't successfully masturbated for weeks. Trying to force himself not to think about children in general or Alfred in particular always turned out counterproductive, and he didn't dare simply let his mind wander. He rubbed the lotion in himself, not wanting to leave his hands sticky. It actually felt good to care for himself. He'd been keeping up his personal hygiene as usual, but since he'd started turning the water too hot and scrubbing too hard, the pleasure had gone out of it.

Much to Arthur's horror, Alfred chose this moment to appear, greeting him with a yell of "Good morning!" and a rib-shattering hug. Arthur struggled free, with extreme difficulty and a fearsome blush. Actually, the hug had felt very nice, it had been too long since he'd allowed himself physical contact with anyone, and Alfred's arms were wonderfully warm ... _SHIT! No!_ Unable to take out his needle in front of the others, he clenched his left fist and dug his thumbnail into the wound, letting the pain stabilise him.

"Good morning, Alfred," he said stiffly.

Alfred blinked. "Dude, I haven't seen you in months! Not even a smile?"

Arthur forced a grin. "Sorry, not been sleeping well. I'll be fine."

"You don't sound fine," Alfred started to say, then glanced at his watch. "Crap, time to go in! C'mon, guys, let's go set up so I can get first dibs on talking!" He scurried into the room. Arthur and Francis followed, Arthur sitting at the opposite end of the table. Francis gave him a strange look.

"The lighting's better here, okay?" Arthur snapped. Francis shrugged and went back to his own paperwork.

Arthur dug at his scratch with his fingernails. _I get this from Francis, I swear. I remember what he was like with the Italy boys. Well, he doesn't seem to have warped them, so at least I'm probably not going to spread it myself._ He smiled weakly. It was rather comforting to have someone he could still hold in contempt. Still, Francis had a point; he'd buy some decent hand cream. If Francis was noticing, it was only a matter of time before someone else did. Someone like Alfred.


	9. Chapter 9

**(Warning for self-harm. Horace Wang is the name often given to Hong Kong in the Chinese fandom. Yekaterina = Ukraine, Michelle = Seychelles, Miguel = Cuba.)**

* * *

Back in his own house two days later, Arthur chuckled to himself as he made the tea, thinking about the meeting. Shakily as it had started, it hadn't been that bad; he'd enjoyed the distraction, even if he had been part of the more entertaining parts. Specifically, when he tried to avoid Alfred, Michelle - another colony he'd raised, along with Francis - had tried to greet him with a hug. He'd pushed her away, forgetting that she wasn't as strong or heavy as Alfred, sending her flying and causing her to land in Yekaterina's ample cleavage. When she'd tried to extract herself, she'd managed to catch the poor woman's blouse buttons in her hair-ribbons and rip the buttons off. The meeting had had to stop for a while as various nations mopped up nosebleeds, others comforted the hysterical Yekaterina, and the rest tried to stop Ivan protecting his sister's honour with a pipe-wielding rampage. Now he was no longer in danger of a beating, and Michelle had luckily assumed he'd only pushed her away because she'd surprised him, Arthur had to laugh.

It had also been a comfort to see his former colonies getting along well. Alfred had gone with Berwald, Tino, and Peter to get ice cream after the meeting, poor Matthew had finally been noticed by Miguel and taken out for a drink, and Horace had been showing Michelle some new electronic gadget which seemed to interest her. It was rather a relief; they didn't need him there all the time anymore. He didn't have to be near them, which meant he couldn't hurt them.

Arthur opened the newspaper, and his good mood evaporated. No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. A child was missing, not fifty miles from Arthur's Lower Tadfield house. He'd never met the family face to face, but he was England and they were his people; if he concentrated, he could picture them. The lost little girl in particular, a chubby smiling blonde with freckles, eight years old. Her name was Violet Porter.

_I did this,_ a treacherous voice whispered in his mind.

Not directly, of course - he wasn't far gone enough to think he'd literally stolen the child himself. But he was the United bloody Kingdom, everything that happened here was his responsibility ... And, sadly, his powers didn't extend to finding the girl.

He had no desire to do himself serious damage on the level of wrist-slitting - it'd heal up easily enough, since he was effectively immortal, but it could take long enough to fully heal that someone might see the marks, which would be hard to explain away. Still, the gentle, brief sting of the needle wouldn't be enough for this. He took his house key and stabbed the teeth into his hand, again and again and again. No blood, but the pain was strong enough to help. He slipped the key between his fingers and dug it into the soft skin there, grimacing at the fresh sting. His pulse and breathing slowed a little.

He giggled weakly to himself as he twisted the key in his palm again, scoring a red circle. _"Draw a circle, that's the Earth, draw a circle, that's the Earth ..."_ Well, it had fewer side effects than binge-drinking. Maybe he should have started this sooner. He looked at his hands, the marks already fading but the nerves still tingling painfully. It wasn't quite enough. He punched the kitchen wall again and again. He wasn't anywhere close to Alfred's strength, but he was still stronger than a normal man, and the plaster shattered under his fists, leaving him scraping his knuckles bloody on the bricks.

"I deserve this," he said, almost casually. It was actually a relief to say it aloud. "I deserve everything I can throw at myself."

It wasn't a happy thought at all, but he started to laugh again. He slid limply down the wall, knelt on the floor, and laughed until his sides hurt worse than his hands.


	10. Chapter 10

"Hey, France, have you noticed something funny going on with England these past few months?" Alfred pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, as his frown had made them slide down. "Not like funny ha-ha, I mean weird."

Francis smirked. "When compared to what? This is England, you know."

"Well, I mean like he's avoiding me! When I talked to him in the last few meetings he didn't even try to argue with me, but I noticed he's still arguing with you. He seems half-asleep all the time, he leaves the second we're done, and he makes excuses if I wanna drop in on him! And Finland tells me he's been avoiding him and Sweden and Sealand as well - he says he sent Sealand a few boxes of old books and movies back in summer and then stopped calling. And at the last meeting I noticed his hands were all red and scratched up." Alfred's eyes widened. "D'you think he's planning to kill himself or something? If he was he wouldn't still be showing up to meetings, right? People who wanna kill themselves don't keep getting involved in solving world problems, right? _Can_ nations kill themselves?"

Francis laughed. "Ah, mon _Amerique_, I doubt you have anything to fear there!" He threw an arm around Alfred's shoulders, smirking sleazily. "You see, poor _Angleterre_ is heartbroken!"

"Heartbroken?"

"Of course! How can you not see that he is pining for you? Every meeting, I watch his eyes follow you, and he looks away like a blushing bride every time you glance at him! Ah, you cruel, cruel boy! How can you toy with his heart so?" Francis draped himself over Alfred and sobbed melodramatically, as if he was the heartbroken one.

_"What?"_ Alfred's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "You- I- What the fuck? Ew! I know you can't get laid, but stop projecting your issues onto us! And would you stop touching me?"

Francis backed off, hands raised. "Non, non, Alfred, I really think he is! Do you not see? The lovestruck often withdraw from the world, as none but their love is good enough, yet they dare not speak to their love either for fear of a final rejection!"

"You really think England's in love with me?" Alfred sighed. "Dude, you say something like that every time someone starts acting weird. Remember when you said Russia was finally returning Belarus' feelings and it turned out he was just trying to sneak that alligator into her room?"

"Fine, so I was wrong that time. But at least entertain the possibility, _mon cher_!"

"Why would being in love make his hands get scratched up?"

"I don't know! The ways of English love are strange," Francis sighed dramatically. "Maybe he's just so distracted by thoughts of you that he is becoming clumsy. Ah, how adorable!"

America nodded sceptically. "Yeah, maybe I should just go talk to him ..."

"Hello."

Both male nations nearly jumped out of their skins as Natalya loomed up behind them. She was smiling, or at least showing her teeth, and clutching a leash which appeared to be attached to a very disconcerted-looking adult male alligator. She looked soppily at it as if it were a puppy.

"Have you seen my brother? I have to thank him for bringing me my darling little Fluffy."

Alfred and Francis fled.

* * *

**(I know, it's not a comedy, but I really couldn't resist the alligator. If anyone else wants to use him, go ahead :) I think he may have to appear in my future fics.)**


	11. Chapter 11

"Arthur, are you feeling well?"

Arthur jumped. Even Yao was noticing he was acting oddly? "Fine, Yao, just fine," he said, addressing Yao by his human name for the benefit of the mortal listeners. "Why?"

"Because we're in a bar and you're having juice."

Arthur looked at his glass. "I _like_ juice!" he said defensively. He still didn't dare touch alcohol. The barman gave him a funny look; he guessed he looked like he really needed booze.

"I've never seen you turn down beer."

"My drinking habits are none of your business, and furthermore ..." Arthur looked around the room for a change of subject, and found one hiding in a corner booth. "... why is your brother undoing his fly while holding a pair of scissors?"

Yao dropped his glass and ran over to his brother. "Yin-Soo, stop that! For the last time, making your brother regrow parts of his body won't help you get your own!"

Arthur watched Yong-Soo's body arguing back in a girl's voice, smirked at the barman's expression, and shook his head. _Wow, his family's worse than mine._ He glanced at Yong-Soo, feeling nothing. Good. Then again, maybe the kid (kids?) was too old - milennia old but physically and mentally sixteen, therefore officially legal in England. He felt bad about using the poor youth to test himself, even if he had no urge to harm him, and pressed on the scratch between his fingers again. He'd started using the needles further up his arms, to hide the marks better, but he couldn't touch those in public without defeating the purpose. He kept the one hidden between the fingers of his left hand; if he struggled in public, he could use that one. Sometimes it hadn't been enough, and he'd punched the walls again, but he didn't do that often enough to keep the bruises too long.

"Arthur, hi!" Tino bounced up, smiling. "Haven't seen you outside meetings in forever!"

"Hello! Sorry, had things to do, you know how it is," Arthur replied. Of course he'd been avoiding Peter, and had to avoid Berwald and Tino as well by association.

Tino nodded. "Peter loves the books - he won't admit it, but he got bored and looked through them, and now we can't prise his head out of _Treasure Island_."

"Ah, I had a feeling he'd like that one," Arthur said, nodding.

"So, uh, I hate to ask a favour, but would you mind watching Peter for us this Friday?"

_What?_ "NO! Uh, I mean, I'd love to, but I can't. Busy. I have to ... have dinner with my boss."

Unfortunately, he hadn't realised Alfred had sat down behind Tino, until the man in question indignantly said "Dude, that's the same excuse you gave me last week!"

Arthur jumped. "Sorry, I mean I have to ... take my rabbit to the vet?"

"You don't have a rabbit, except the invisible green one!" Alfred looked hurt. "Man, you've been avoiding me for months! If I did something wrong, can't you just tell me? You never had a problem with that before!"

"Yeah, you've not wanted to see us either," Tino said, sounding just as hurt.

"No, no, it's nothing any of you have done!" _There's nothing you could do to drive me away, Alfred, you poor stupid beautiful boy, it's me, it's all me._ Arthur breathed heavily, trying to keep calm. _I just need to wait till I'm home, then I can get my needles, it feels so good and it's so easy now like running a needle through a bug because that's what I am, I'm as worthless as an insect, I'm a disgusting baby-fucking pervert that doesn't deserve to be near anyone as good and pure as my kids though I love them all so much even when they hate me but I'm such a monster I can't love anything ..._

"Arthur!" Tino's voice broke into his panic. "You really don't look well. Have you been drinking again?"

"Uh. Yes," Arthur lied.

Tino patted his back. "Maybe you should go home."

Arthur realised he was about to hyperventilate, and cold sweat was breaking out on his brow. "Maybe I should."

Alfred watched him leave, not willing to press the matter in public. Francis' argument had made some kind of sense, and after thinking it over he had to admit he didn't find the idea unpleasant, but Arthur didn't seem in love. He seemed terrified. Of what, Alfred had no idea, but he was a hero, and his next mission would be to find out.

* * *

**(Yes I went there with Korea's Dissociative Identity Disorder jokes please don't kill me.)**


	12. Chapter 12

"Yo, Artie?" Alfred hammered on the front door. "Francis and Tino said I should talk to you in private! I know you're home! ... Fine, I'm coming in!"

Alfred heard Arthur upstairs, shouting and hitting something, as soon as he opened the front door. It took a while to make out the words, but when he did, they cut straight to his soul.

"I deserve this! I deserve this! _I deserve this!"_ The words trailed off into muffled sobbing.

"England? Britain? United Kingdom? ... _Arthur!" _He ran upstairs and found Arthur in his room, curled up on the floor, knuckles scraped raw and plaster dust all over him. His arms were covered in scratches, healing much slower than normal for a nation. He looked up at the noise, and looked horrified when he saw who it was.

"Alfred? What are you doing here? How'd you get in?"

"Door was unlocked. Artie, Artie, what are you doing to yourself?" Alfred scooped Arthur up and sat down on the bed with Arthur in his lap.

"No, don't touch me, don't, I'll only contaminate you!" Arthur sobbed, struggling weakly and sagging into Alfred's arms. He wept into Alfred's T-shirt. "Don't let me do this to you."

"What the hell ...? Did I do something wrong?"

"No! Please, Alfred, just leave me alone. I love you so much, I couldn't bear to know I'd hurt you. Damaged you." He mumbled something through his tears which sounded to Alfred like "I don't want to make you as disgusting as I am."

Alfred blinked in confusion. "Uh, dude, if you're gay, that's fine. Not like it matters all that much to a nation. And I already kinda suspected with the fairy thing-"

"No! That's not it! You're too young! You were too young ..." Arthur choked out.

"I'm four hundred!"

"You weren't always!"

"... Well, I know I'm awesome, but I don't think I was a cute enough kid to turn someone into a pedophile." Arthur flinched at the word. Alfred watched him expectantly for a moment, then said "Dude, you didn't correct my pronunciation. This must be really bad." Silence. "Artie. _Do_ you think you're a pedophile?"

Arthur was silent for a long time, then managed to say "... I must be."

"Ooh-kay. Why do you think so?" Alfred asked sceptically.

"I just told you, you fool!"

"You've really been hot for me since I was a little kid?" Despite his best attempts, Alfred's face screwed up in distaste, and Arthur wailed and started clawing at his arms. Alfred grabbed his wrists and forced his hands apart. "Stop that! Hurting yourself won't change anything. Just tell me the truth. I don't get it; if you were into me then, why have you only got upset about it now? It's not like you ever actually did anything to me, right?"

"I-I don't know! It just hit me when I saw you - that day I asked you to leave, this summer? You looked so ... I can't, you're still so innocent ... but I couldn't _not_ look. You're beautiful."

Alfred relaxed. "It only started this year? Okay, this sounds a lot less like you were hot for kid-me and more like you got weirded out by liking now-me. Still kind of weird, but it's not that bad. Can't say I'm not kinda surprised, but I really don't mind, and it's definitely not worth hurting yourself over."

To Alfred's surprise, Arthur only cried harder. "Oh, my poor boy, what did I do to you? I can't believe you're defending me even now I've told you! I can't believe I warped you like that ..."

"Dammit, Arthur! If you ever even _thought_ you cared about me, _listen to me now!"_ Alfred snarled, shaking Arthur hard. Arthur stopped crying out of sheer surprise, and Alfred sighed and rested his forehead on his hand. This really sucked; he wasn't used to having to be the parent. Thinking was hard, but Arthur needed him, and heroes wouldn't be heroes if they backed down from things just because they were hard to do. He'd find a way to fix this.


	13. Chapter 13

Finally, Alfred looked up as an idea struck him. He looked Arthur in the eye and spoke slowly and carefully. "Look, Arthur - Artie - if you're such a horrible person, why are you upset?"

Arthur stared at him as if he'd just grown a second head. "Doesn't that question rather answer itself?"

"No, you're not getting it. If you were as bad as you think you are, you wouldn't think it was a bad thing that you were, right? Bad guys don't get upset that they're bad except in lame-o girls' cartoons."

Arthur's eyebrows rose in surprise, as if this hadn't occurred to him. "Actually that does make sense, but ..."

"No buts, man!" Alfred beamed, and handed over his handkerchief. The tide was turning in his favour. "Now, do you actually remember wanting to bad-touch a kid before you started getting all emo about it?"

"I beg your pardon, I am not and never have been 'emo'!" Arthur snapped.

Alfred laughed triumphantly. "See, I got you to argue with me again! Your mood's already improving! But really, do you? Did you ever think of this when I actually was a kid? Or with any of your other kids? If you did it seems kind of stupid to only get upset about it now I'm, uh, out of danger."

Arthur twisted the handkerchief nervously. "Well ... I don't recall it, no. I assumed I'd just forgotten."

"Dude, I can't imagine you'd forget something like that. It's been like nine hundred years since you hit puberty, I think you'd have noticed before this year."

Arthur managed a weak smile and a fake snarl of "Are you calling me old again?"

Alfred spotted the blatant opening for a comment about how maybe Arthur actually had forgotten what with his going senile, but wisely restrained himself. He didn't want to undo his hard work getting Arthur back into a reasonable state, nor was he keen to endure the beating it would surely earn him. "Good, 'cos I don't remember you ever doing anything to hurt us like that. Well, there was the scary-face routine, but that was it."

"No, I know I didn't do anything, but ... I was so convinced I'd wanted to. Now I say it, it seems silly."

Alfred looked at the floor between his feet. "Actually, I don't wanna bring my own complexes into this, but I gotta say it ... I'm a bit hurt that you still think of me as a kid. Wasn't the whole Revolutionary War enough to get that across? I'm not a child anymore!"

"No, no you're not." Arthur rested his hand on Alfred's. "You're a wonderful young man, and today you've been the hero you've always said you are. I'm sorry I hurt you."

"Hey, don't apologise! You're the one who's really suffered here. I'm sorry I didn't get to you sooner!"

"It's okay. So you don't think I was ever ..." Arthur cleared his throat and forced himself to say the dreaded word, "... ever a paedophile? However it's pronounced?" he added, smirking slightly.

"Well, if I thought you were I'd suggest you go talk to Japan about getting some bootleg hentai-"

Arthur punched his arm. "Not funny."

"Hey, you're not crying when I say that stuff - that's a start!" Alfred grinned. "But seriously, I don't think you have anything to worry about except how hard you're being on yourself. Seriously, it's not good for you. Look, I'll stay over tonight, and first thing tomorrow we get you some time off work and find you a shrink. I'm pretty sure you can't be the only one this kind of thing has happened to. I don't know if we should find someone we can tell you're England ... well, we'll figure something out."

Arthur sniffled and wiped his eyes. "Thank you, Alfred."

"No problem."

"I do love you, you know." Arthur rested his head on Alfred's shoulder. "You'll never be my brother again, but if nothing else you'll always be my friend. And I know that sounds strange, but it works for me."

Alfred ruffled his hair. "Love you too, old man."

* * *

**(Not the final chapter, it's not that easy. Stay tuned.)**


	14. Chapter 14

Arthur woke to the sound of rapid typing and clicking. When he opened his eyes, he found Alfred in the bed beside him, mercifully clothed (even if it was in Superman T-shirt and boxers), engrossed in something on his laptop.

"What're you doing?" Arthur mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Hey, Artie, look at this! I was right, you're not the only one!" Alfred said, beaming, and turned the laptop to face him. Arthur blinked owlishly at the screen.

_"Obsessive-compulsive disorder?_ I didn't know nations could even get that!"

"Well, looks like we can. Maybe it's 'cos of your German influence from way back, I always thought he had a bit of it ... From what I see here I'm thinking it's been lying mostly dormant for a long time and just got set off now. It says here it does get worse with age, and they mean within a human lifetime, so ... yeah."

Arthur took the laptop and flicked through the pages. There was far more to OCD than he'd always assumed - his immediate thought was that of excessive handwashing and turning lights on and off, but apparently his own fears weren't an uncommon variation. Martin Luther had suffered a similar condition, in his case such a terror of blasphemy that he refused to even step on two crossed straws for fear of symbolically defiling the Cross. Usually blasphemous or sexual in nature, such fears often take the form of something so vile to the sufferer that they would never dream of actually doing it ...

Alfred patted Arthur's back. "Sorry, it's a tough diagnosis, but it's better than what you thought, yeah?"

"Infinitely." Arthur smiled, feeling a great weight lifting from himself.

Alfred looked down and giggled. "Striped flannel PJs? You really are old."

"They're warm," Arthur said primly. He handed the laptop back, then something occurred to him. "Wait, why are you in my bed? You weren't here last night!"

"Aheh, yeah, I heard you thrashing about in the night and I thought you might be lonely. Seemed to work, you calmed down a lot." Alfred chuckled. "Um, we both need to call our bosses. I still think you need some time off work, and I'll take some too - I think you'll do better with me around."

_Thanks. I still need you to prove you aren't going to leave._ Arthur picked up the phone and dialled; the special direct line.

"Mr Cameron? Good morning. I just want to say you were right, I've not been well lately and I've been letting it get worse, so I'm going to take some time out, if that's not a problem."

"Oh, really? No, it's not a problem. May I ask why?" came the reply.

"Personal matters. I don't want to go into too much detail ..." Arthur took a deep breath. Really, the specifics were none of his boss's business, but letting him worry over what was wrong with his nation couldn't be good, and maybe if Arthur put it into words it'd help get the message across to himself. "But I have reason to believe I may have developed obsessive-compulsive disorder. Don't worry, I can't spread it to the human population."

"Oh, so you're finally getting help for that?"

Arthur nearly dropped the phone. "You _knew?"_

"Not as such, but I started to suspect when you washed your hands six times in one morning."

Arthur winced. That had been the day Mrs Bottler had made him look at and handle pictures of her grandchildrens' school play. At least his boss didn't know the exact cause, or the fact that he'd hidden a needle in his sleeve that day ... He dismissed the thought, made his excuses, and hung up. Alfred smiled at him, then picked up his mobile phone from the bedside table and dialled.

"Yo, boss! England's gone nuts so I'm taking some time off to help him get his head back on-"

Arthur, both offended and honestly laughing for the first time in months, hit him with a pillow.


	15. Chapter 15

"Arthur, no!" Alfred prised the needle away from Arthur's hand, smearing blood on his sleeve.

"I'm sorry!" Arthur said, clearly trying to hold back tears. "I started thinking about it again ..."

"It's okay, it's okay. I don't think it's going to go away overnight." Alfred sighed, rubbing the puncture wound on Arthur's wrist. "How about every time you want to hurt yourself while I'm here, you come and hug me instead, okay?"

"How will that help? It was you being near which got me worked up in the first place!" Arthur saw Alfred's expression. "No, not because you did anything! Just ... I was scared again."

"Okay, I get it. But if you keep hugging me and nothing bad happens when you do ...?" Alfred said hopefully.

"If you just want me to hug you, say so." Arthur wrapped his arms around Alfred's waist, smiling weakly. "Sorry. What you said yesterday did make sense, but then I thought ... of _course_ you'd say it was okay, because you love me."

"Well, you're accepting that someone does love you. I guess that's a start." Alfred sighed. "Um, speaking of which, when you said you, y'know, _like_-like me ..." Alfred giggled nervously; he was making himself sound like a kid, which really wasn't helping. "Well, I just wanna say that I'm okay with that, and, uh if you wanna go out sometime ...?"

Arthur sighed. "I'm sorry, Alfred, but no. That's not a good idea."

"What?" Alfred pulled back, looking hurt. "You panic for months over this, hurt yourself, I help you, I just figure out I like you too, and you pick _now_ to decide you don't like me anymore?"

"I do!" Arthur protested. "Really, I do. But I'm not in a fit state to be in a relationship with anyone at the moment, Alfred. Especially not you - not your fault, but I need to, ah, rework my thoughts on you a bit, if you see my meaning."

Alfred sagged like a wet kitten and mumbled "Okay, yeah, I get it. Geez, both our timing sucks, huh?" Arthur had to laugh, and Alfred joined in.

"Whaddya say you go watch TV while I make lunch, okay?" Alfred said, pulling away, still smiling.

"Fine, just go easy. Last time you made lunch for two you made enough to feed the UN for a week."

"Hey, I finished everything you left!" Alfred chuckled, and headed for the kitchen. "Salad sound good?"

"Great." Arthur sat on the sofa and reached for the TV remote, then realised he was avoiding the side Peter had sat on during his last visit. He knew it didn't really make sense, but over the past couple of weeks he'd started to feel as if he was making indirect contact with the boy that way, even after cleaning the sofa. He scowled, and intentionally moved over to the neglected side, grinning when he didn't suffer his usual panic. He turned on the TV and switched it over to the news.

Seconds later, he yelled "ALFRED!"

Alfred ran into the room, hands still wet and soapy. "What?" He followed Arthur's pointing finger to the TV.

"... missing for four months, Violet Porter has now been found injured but alive in the basement of a house in Manchester," said the reporter, as a picture of the child appeared on the screen. "The girl is now in stable condition in hospital, further details have been withheld. The suspected kidnapper is being questioned ..."

Arthur gaped at the screen. "I remember her! She lives in Greater Tadfield! That was the day I broke my fingers." He looked down at the still-healing scratches on his arms and hands. "That poor girl, what did they do to her?" His breathing started to speed up, and his fingers entwined, not quite squeezing his cuts again but getting close.

Alfred sat beside Arthur, and wrapped him in a hug again. "Aw, geez, Arthur, I'm sorry. But whatever happened, it's _not your fault_, and please don't start thinking it is. Okay? We've all got bad ones among our mortals, it doesn't mean we're like that ourselves and we didn't make them that way. Humans just suck sometimes." Nations had this brought home to them often, though usually on a larger scale; Yao still had to sneak behind his bosses's backs to see most of his family outside of official meetings.

"Okay. Not my fault. Okay." Arthur breathed deeply. "Alfred, you're getting soap on my shirt."

"Sorry." Alfred pulled away, but Arthur grabbed his arm.

"I didn't say stop."


	16. Chapter 16

The counsellor was a plump, sweet-faced lady in her mid-thirties, firm but non-threatening, almost tangibly welcoming. Her name was Jeannie Macloud. Her consulting room lacked the red leather couch Arthur had half-expected, instead containing a cosy, overstuffed sofa with a floral pattern. Arthur sat primly on it, playing nervously with his watch.

"Well, Mr Kirkland?" Mrs Macloud ("call me Jeannie") said, peering at him over her glasses, not rudely but clearly insisting he speak.

"Well." Arthur cleared his throat. "I can't think of how to start."

"How about when you first noticed the problem?" she said kindly.

"Well, that'd be early this summer. I ... realised I was in love. With a young man I've known since he was a baby. He's only nineteen now." Arthur had given his own age as thirty, instead of his usual claim of twenty-three; four years wasn't a big enough age gap for his cover story, and with the worry lines and lack of sleep he did look quite a bit older than usual.

"Oh, really? How do you know this young man?"

"Distant relation by marriage. No blood ties, though. We're both orphans, I looked after him a bit when he was little - not as much as I wanted to, he was a good kid. Then in his mid-teens we had a big fight - he was hotheaded and I was pushy, long story. We patched things up fairly recently. We got to be quite good friends. We've both helped each other through hard times. We argue a lot, but we don't mean it now, you know? And then, one day ... well."

Jeannie wrote something down. "So what did you do?"

"Panicked, of course. All I could think about was when he was little, I was the nearest thing to a consistent parental figure he had, and I was betraying that. And I started to wonder if I'd been suppressing it since ... back when it would have been even worse. If you see what I mean."

"Can you tell me in your own words?"

Arthur eventually managed to choke out "Since when he was little, I mean. I don't remember feeling that way at the time, but I couldn't get the idea to go away. And I started looking at every time I was with him when he was young, and all the other children I knew - big family, I practically raised my little siblings - and I thought I could have hurt them."

Jeannie smiled kindly. "Well, Mr Kirkland, it sounds to me like textbook OCD. That was what you said you thought it was, yes?"

Arthur sagged with relief. "Good. Alfred - that's the boy - he said the same thing, but I wondered if he was just trying to make me feel better. It's the sort of thing he'd do. He means well, but he doesn't always understand what's best."

"He sounds like a nice young man."

"'Nice' doesn't cover it, he's ... infuriating but charming. It's hard to explain."

"You told him about your condition?"

"Yes, when he found me ..." Arthur rolled up his sleeves and made a stabbing motion at his wrist.

"Self-harming?" Jeannie looked at the scratches on his arms. Arthur winced and nodded. "What's this one?" she asked, pointing to an old scar. "Did you self-harm before, or is this just from an accident or something?"

"No, that was from a fight with my older sister when we were young." The Irish Rebellion, to be strictly accurate. "We were raised by ... an uncle and a cousin, and none of us liked them much either." That was the nearest suitable analogue he could think of to his relationship with Rome and France. "Uncle was very pushy, he wanted us all to be exactly like him, and now I look back I was the same way when I took my little siblings in later on. I tried to mould them to what I wanted them to be, and all of them rebelled eventually."

"So you lacked control in your childhood, and tried to take control when and where you could by bullying your siblings?" asked Jeannie.

"Something like that."

"Sounds like you've had OCD tendencies for a while. And your own difficult childhood may be related to your fears of harming another child - do you think that sounds right?"

"Possible. So you don't think I'm-?"

"No, Mr Kirkland, you're not going to act on these thoughts. The very reason you're having them is because they disgust you - the condition is like that, it feeds on your fears. It must have taken you a lot of courage to ask for help."

Arthur smiled. "I couldn't have done it without Alfred."


	17. Chapter 17

"Yes, I think we'll do well together, if you're willing to work with me to solve your problem. So shall we make an appointment for next week?" Jeannie said at the end of the hour.

"Yes, thank you." Arthur took a deep breath. "Just one thing, Mrs Macloud - Jeannie. If I'm going to be working with you, I'm going to need to explain something about who I actually am ..."

Alfred came to meet him later, waving and flashing a dazzling grin at Jeannie, who waved back weakly. Alfred looked at Arthur. "So you explained?"

Arthur smirked. "Yes. I was wondering if I'd have to call a therapist for her, poor woman." His smirk turned into a kinder smile. "She was a bit concerned when I explained our real relationship, but I told her nations don't breed in the conventional manner and she didn't press the issue."

On the way home, Alfred looked sideways at Arthur and said "So, how did it go?"

Arthur looked at his feet and said "Fine. She wants me to go back to the GP and ask about medication, and she made another appointment. But she told me there's technically no cure. I can learn to live with the condition, and it'll likely fade as I develop coping mechanisms, but it'll probably never entirely go away."

Alfred frowned. "But all the research that's been done was on humans, yeah? Maybe humans just don't live long enough for it to fade completely. And we're not really static anyway - you're not a bloodthirsty pirate anymore, are you?"

"... Good point." Arthur perked up a little. "Home, then?"

At home, after dinner (takeout curry; Alfred still wouldn't let Arthur cook), Arthur curled up on the sofa with a cup of hot sweet tea, letting himself unwind. Alfred was bustling about in the kitchen, tidying up at his own insistence, and the TV was showing Simpsons reruns - Alfred and Arthur both loved that show. Arthur felt better than he had in months.

The phone rang, but didn't break his good mood for once.

"England?" Yao's voice came from the other end.

"China! Good to hear from you."

"So are you feeling better? I heard America came over to see how you were."

"Fine. Mostly."

"'Mostly'?"

England sighed. "Okay, just so you don't hear any wild rumours, I had a bit of a breakdown and I'm seeing a therapist. Don't spread it about."

"Ah. I'd recommend my family counsellor, but I don't think this one speaks English."

"This is the fifth one you've had, isn't it? Not surprising, what with your youngest."

"Hey, don't talk like that about my baby sister! She's only sixty, she'll be fine in a few centuries."

"True. Sorry. Tell your family I said hello."

"Good. Have you asked America out yet?" England dropped the phone. He picked it back up and spluttered indignantly into it. "Yes, you were that obvious," China replied smugly. "Can't fool your ex, you know."

"I hate you."

"Do you still do that thing with your tongue you showed me in 1820?"

"You can't see it, but I'm making an obscene gesture in the general direction of China right now. And for the record, there's nothing going on between me and Alfred. Not for lack of interest on either part, though."

"What, really? Why?"

"I told you I'm in therapy. I'm not in a fit state to be seeing anyone romantically."

"Oh. Uh. Sorry?"

"Don't worry, I will be fine soon, I swear. Just keep it quiet."

"Understood. See you next meeting." Yao hung up, and so did Arthur.

Alfred appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Did I hear China on the phone?"

"Yes," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. "Nosy bugger. Well, at least he's not still bitter about our breakup."

"Breakup?" Alfred blinked.

"Yes, we had an on-off thing going through the early 1800s, till that opium business. I told him, I was pretty high through most of that century too."

"Hey, look on the bright side - he's definitely not a kid! More proof you're fine!"

Arthur laughed. "Oh, speaking of which, there was something Jeannie wanted me to do. I'll need the phone for the rest of the evening, and I'd like some support. Do you mind?"

Alfred shook his head and sat beside Arthur. "It's cool, I'm here if you need me."

"Thanks." Arthur took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and dialled.

"Canada - can I call you Matthew for now? Sorry I haven't called for a while. How are things?"


End file.
